


You Are My Heart

by Daisy_Rivers



Series: These Fall-in-Loves [4]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda (Broadway Cast) RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-09 14:49:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12278748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daisy_Rivers/pseuds/Daisy_Rivers
Summary: Your first business trip isn't as much fun as you thought it would be, and you really miss Rafael.





	You Are My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> This is dedicated to the lovely @hiddenunderhiddles on Tumblr, who got the name quiz right.

Business travel, you decide, is way over-rated. You get into Atlanta late Monday afternoon, pick up your rental car, and drive to your hotel. A quick call confirms your meeting with Thomas Palmer for the next day. Then you’re on your own for dinner and the evening. Before you go out to eat, you check the location of Professor Palmer’s on-campus office and calculate driving time to be sure you’re punctual for the appointment. Once the route is in your phone, you venture out to a nearby Applebee’s for a chicken sandwich and then return to your room. You’ve never traveled alone before, and it’s weird not having anybody to talk to. You know Rafael is using this time to do some recording and that he’ll be in the studio until late, so you call Jasmine instead.

“Hey, Ms. Business Executive,” she says. “How’s Atlanta?”

“Big,” you tell her. “Lots of traffic.”

She snickers. “Oh, yeah, I’m sure it’s much worse than New York.”

“I know where everything is in New York. I don’t get lost there.”

“Are you lost in Atlanta now?”

“No, I’m at the hotel. I’m just worried about getting lost on my way to the meeting tomorrow.”

“Come on, Y/N,” she says, “you’ll be fine. You’ve got it in your phone, right?”

“Yeah, I just want this to go well. If I don’t get this guy to sign the contract, I’m not going to get the promotion.”

“Relax. You’re smart, you know your job. You’ll have him eating out of your hand in no time.”

“I hope so,” you say before you hang up. “I really need to build a good working relationship with this guy.”

You’re on time for your appointment, and you find Professor Palmer in his office as arranged. He’s a smallish guy with thinning hair and glasses. He’s wearing a rumpled green suit – you try to recall if you’ve ever actually seen a green suit before – with a brown and gold striped tie. Well, he’s writing a book, not trying for the best-dressed list. Still, you’re glad you turned up in a simple navy blue dress and matching taupe heels and bag, so that you at least look like a publisher’s representative from New York City.

Professor Palmer prefers to be called Dr. Palmer, you find out, so you comply. The first thing you check on is his progress in the book, and you’re pleased to see that he is following the schedule that Mr. Norland proposed. Then you broach the topic of changing the title.

“Mr. Norland suggested that you revisit the title,” you say. “He thinks that _Losing the Lost Cause_ might be too repetitious.”

Dr. Palmer is instantly defensive. “That’s the whole point,” he tells you. “The cause was lost in 1865, then revived in popular culture, and now is being lost again.”

“I understand that, but I’m not sure someone browsing titles would take that meaning from it.” You need to be cautious here. The last thing you want to do is offend him.

“What does Mr. Norland suggest instead?”

“Well, he doesn’t really have a specific suggestion. That something I thought you and I could talk about.”

Dr. Palmer shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “What do you think?”

You decide to be honest with him. You won’t build a working relationship by beating around the bush. “I think the title needs to indicate finality. That’s the premise of the book, right? That the next few years will be the end of the Glorious Cause myth.”

He sighs, giving you a weary look. “One can only hope.”

“So you want a stronger word than _losing_.”

“Like …?”

“Defeating, vanquishing, overcoming, terminating, killing, routing, conquering …”

“What are you, a walking thesaurus?”

You smile. “It’s part of my job.”

He considers for a few minutes. “ _Killing_ is good. It’s strong.”

You nod, but don’t tell him what to do.

“So is _overcoming_ , and I like its tie-in with the spiritual.”

That’s where you want him to go. “It also indicates more of a struggle than _killing_ , I think,” you say, trying to keep your voice neutral.

 _“Overcoming the Lost Cause,”_ he tries it out. “Let’s go with that.”

You give him an encouraging smile, and he looks proud of himself.

The rest of the day passes more or less the same way. Mr. Palmer is not to be hurried or pressured. Every decision takes time and consideration. You break for lunch, but it’s a working lunch, with more coaxing and encouraging him along. By three o’clock in the afternoon, your mouth hurts from smiling, and your brain hurts from trying to work with him at his snail’s pace. Mr. Palmer still hasn’t signed the contract, and you are ready to hit him on the head with his own first-edition signed copy of _Team of Rivals_.

“I know that there will be other publishers interested in your book,” you tell him, broaching the subject for the third time, “but as a small firm, we will be able to give you much more personal attention than any of the larger publishers.” You review marketing strategies with him. He asks more questions, most of which you’ve already answered at least twice.  Finally, when you are just about to give up, he says, “Okay, that sounds good. Where do you want me to sign?”

You whip the contract out so fast that you’re surprised it doesn’t make a sonic boom, and you hand it to him. He signs, you sign, and you have just made the biggest deal of your career. You manage to contain your excitement and act like you do this sort of thing every day. There’s not much more to talk about, so after some polite chat, you bid Mr. Palmer goodbye until next time. You stop for dinner at the first familiar chain restaurant you see, and quickly call Mr. Norland. He is delighted and says lots of complimentary things about your work.

You wait until you get back to the hotel to call Rafa. You’re not even sure if he’s home or if he’s working late, or just out with Daveed and the guys, so you take a shower before you call, and then decide to Facetime him even with wet hair because you miss seeing him. You’re not really surprised when he doesn’t pick up, but you’re disappointed. You text Jasmine instead because you have to share your news with somebody.

 **You:** Hey, this is me, your old friend the Really Important Editorial Assistant! He signed!

 **Jazz:** Woot! Yay, you! You getting big $$$ bonus?

 **You:** Raise  & new title!

 **Jazz:** You still gonna hang out w us?

 **You:** Let me think about it.

 **Jazz:** Bitch.

 **You:** You know I’m jk. I love you  & Ant forever.

 **Jazz:** You better. We hooked you up w Rafa.

 **You:** Thank you a million times.

 **Jazz:** Ant’s out w Rafa  & Daveed & Lin rn.

 **You:** Where are they?

 **Jazz:** Idk, Lin’s maybe? They were gonna talk about some project?

 **You:** K. Gotta get some sleep. Early flight tomorrow.

 **Jazz:** You guys want to get dinner somewhere tomorrow night? Celebrate your deal?

 **You:** Yeah, sounds good. Plane gets in at noon, so I can get nap. Just text Rafa bcs I’ll have my phone off on the plane.

 **Jazz:** Will do.

She adds a line of heart emojis, and you set your phone alarm for way too early because you have to be at the airport by seven thirty to return the rental car, get through security and get to the gate on time. You’re tired, but it’s hard to get to sleep. You don’t like to sleep alone, and it’s been nearly two days since you’ve talked to Rafael. You don’t even know if he’ll be there when you get home tomorrow. You wonder what project he and Daveed were talking to Lin and Anthony about. It’s strange, but just two days of not communicating with each other makes you feel cut off from him, and you don’t like the feeling. You want to talk to him, laugh with him, snuggle up close to him. The hotel bed is cold and lonely.

You don’t sleep well, tossing and turning, dozing for a while, then waking up again. When the alarm goes off at six, you’ve barely slept. You do your best to hide your dark circles with makeup, but your face in the mirror still looks tired, and you know you’re irritable. You just hope your flight’s not delayed so that you can get home. Maybe you’ll be able to get some sleep on the plane.

You return the rental car with no difficulty and get through security, but when it’s time to board the plane, you realize you’ve got a middle seat. There’s a grandmotherly type in the window seat to your left who brought her own pillow and lap quilt and looks like she’s settling in for the winter instead of a two-hour flight. On your right, there’s a tall skinny guy with shoulder-length hair and striped socks. You are at least a little sympathetic toward him because he’s clearly way too tall to be comfortable, but he keeps shifting around, trying to find a better position and poking you with his pointy elbows. When you try to scrunch over to give him a little extra room, you accidentally nudge Granny, who gives you an insulted look and tucks her lap quilt in tightly as if she expects you to try to steal it. This routine repeats itself throughout the flight, and by the time the pilot announces that you’re about to make the approach to LaGuardia, you are so tired and unhappy that you’re on the verge of tears. You grab the first taxi you can and give the driver Rafael’s address because you really, really need to see him.

He’s not home.

That’s all it takes to break the tight control that you’ve had going for the last three days, all through your stressful meeting with Mr. Palmer, through driving around a strange city, and finally through two and a half wretched hours on the plane. You drop onto the ugly brown couch and start to cry.

Rafa finds you there an hour later, still sniffling, still miserable. He doesn’t say a word, just gathers you up in his arms and pulls you onto his lap and holds you, rubbing circles on your back as if you were five years old. You cry onto his neck for a while, but then start fumbling around for a tissue. He hands you a fairly clean napkin that somebody left on the end table, and you scrub at your face with it. It occurs to you that you probably look worse than he’s ever seen you, what with the dark circles and the red nose and no make-up left.

He kisses you very gently. “Do you want to talk?” he asks.

You sniff and nod, but don’t say anything. He looks a little wary. “Do you want me to ask questions?”

That gets a small laugh out of you. You let your breath out and lean against him, and he feels so _good_. He’s Rafa, and you love him, and you’re home. You’re safe. He will never let you fall.

“I missed you so much,” you finally manage to say.

“I missed you too,” he says, but he’s still a little puzzled. “I talked to Jasmine, and she said you made the deal.”

“Yeah, I did,” you confirm.

“That’s good, right?”

“Yeah, sure – promotion, raise, all that.”

He waits a little, and you look up at him and put your hand on his cheek, and then lightly touch his hair where it’s falling down over his forehead. “I’m so glad I’m home,” you whisper.

“Is that what it is?” he asks. “Did you get homesick?” He kisses you again, and you lean into it.

“It’s the first time I was away from you, really,” you tell him.

“And now you’re home.” He’s smiling.

You suddenly realize that you’re in his apartment, not yours, and he sees your face change. “You’re home,” he says. “You are my heart. Home is where the heart is. You make me feel I am home, no matter where we are. You’re telling me you feel the same way.”

You’re crying again, but not because you’re unhappy. He pulls you in closer, and you look into his eyes, blue-green and bright, and he’s smiling at you. “I love you, girl.”

“I love you too.” He already knows.

“You know we’re having dinner with Jasmine and Anthony, right? Celebrating your career success?”

“Mm-hm. I need to get a shower and a nap.”

“How about if I help you with that?’

“That is by far the best offer I’ve had in days.”

He helps you out of your clothes and turns the shower on. You get in and wash your face, and you’ve just started to rub the shampoo into your hair when Rafa joins you. He stands behind you and washes your hair, massaging your scalp and the back of your neck. His strong hands move down onto your shoulders, and he presses his fingers into your muscles, working the tension out. “Your back is really knotted up, babe,” he says.

“I had the middle seat,” you tell him.

“Oh, that’s the worst.” He kisses the back of your neck. “The hot water will help, and then I’ll give you a real back rub after we’re done in here.” He helps you wash, his hands everywhere, gives his own hair a quick shampoo, and then wraps you up in soft towels. You stand there, eyes closed, and he dries you gently, even combs out your hair for you, blotting it with a towel. Then he turns you around and looks you up and down. You’re still not used to that, the way he looks at your naked body and licks his lips. You smile, but look away, and you can feel yourself blushing. He pulls you against him and grinds so that you can feel him, and he whispers, “Just you wait.”

Once you’re on the bed, he turns you face down. “I promised you a back rub,” he reminds you. He straddles you, his knees at your hips, and as he leans forward to reach your shoulders, he presses against your ass.

Your hips jerk involuntarily, and his knees press tighter. “You have to hold still so I can help those muscles relax,” he murmurs.

“I know what would help me relax,” you tell him, breathing hard.

He makes a little _tch_ sound. “You’re so impatient.”

You are. His hands are working on your back, pressing and kneading the muscles, and at the same time, he’s rubbing himself against your ass, so that you feel his hard length dragging back and forth. You keep trying to spread your legs, but he holds you tight. You know you’re dripping wet, and you can’t keep yourself from squirming. He chuckles, his hands halfway down your back now.

“You want my tongue on your clit, babe, yeah?” he whispers in your ear.

You let out a moan. “Please.”

He sucks on your earlobe. “Pretty soon.”

He grinds against you, and you are having trouble with any coherent thought. All you want is him on you and in you. He brings his hands down your back, pressing his thumbs down your ass, and then he sits back and releases the pressure on your hips, and you can’t stop your legs from opening up to him. He slides his left hand under you, finds your clit with a finger, and starts making gentle circles. It’s enough to take you closer to the edge, but not quite enough to push you over, and you twist, trying to turn to face him. He rolls to the side, pulling his hand away, and you let out a cry of frustration. You can move easily now, though, and you look up into his face. He’s smiling, and he leans down to kiss you, kisses you with his whole mouth, tongue and teeth, and his mouth is warm and soft, then hard, and you want more. His mouth goes to your breasts, and you arch up, pushing into his mouth, and as he sucks on your nipple, he slides two fingers into you, curling them a little, pressing up. You push against his hand, but he moves it away. Then he pushes your legs farther apart, and you see his face, hungry, his lips parted, his eyes like blue flame. He grins at you, baring his teeth, and then his tongue is on your clit, flicking and circling, and you know you will come in a matter of seconds. You feel it building, growing, and as your hips start to shake, his tongue moves faster, and then you fall, flying, while everything around you flashes and glitters. He works you through it until you’re gasping and wailing, jerking through the last few spasms. He kisses the inside of your thighs gently, and pulls himself up beside you.

You’re still breathing hard. You reach for him, brush the hair out of his eyes, and pull him down to kiss. He’s on top of you, not waiting any longer, and you lift your hips to him. He closes his eyes and throws his head back as he slides in, and you push up so he can go deeper. He does, and then deeper still, and you pull your knees back, wanting all of him. He pushes harder, deeper, until you feel stretched tight, feel like another thrust might split you in two, and you _want_ it, because it feels so good to have him fill you like this. You watch him, watch his face, watch the bunched muscles in his shoulders as he moves, and he’s the most astonishingly beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. He gets his thumb on your clit, and it seems impossible that you could come again, but he’s stretching you more and more, pushing and pushing, and you tighten around him. His breathing catches, and he opens his eyes, sees you watching him. His thumb moves on you, faster and harder, and he holds your gaze until the last seconds, when his eyes close again and he’s panting. You feel the cascade start as your body takes over, trying to hold him in, and he gasps and swears his way through it.

For a minute or two, you both just breathe, and then he says, “Jesus _fuck_ , that was good.”

“So good,” you agree.

He pulls out gently and leans on his elbow, outlines your face with a fingertip. “My God, what you do to me.” He kisses you, then pulls himself up to reach for his cigarettes.

You put your head on his lap. Once he has his cigarette lit, he plays with your hair. “Your face …” he says.

“What about it?”

“When you look at me, what I see in your face …”

“What?”

“That you want me. No games, no pretense, just honest lust. It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You have to think about that. There’s more to your relationship than lust; at least you hope there is.

“I may not have expressed that well,” he remarks, apparently thinking over what he just said.

You smile. “And you one of the great wordsmiths of the twenty-first century.”

“Shut up.” But you can hear the laugh in his voice. “Sometimes,” he continues, “when you get to be known for something – you know, like being a great wordsmith – sometimes people have motives. Sometimes you get to be a merit badge, sometimes a stepping stone.”

“Ouch.”

He shrugs and inhales smoke. “Oh, not always, and sometimes people don’t even realize they’re doing it, but you – I don’t think you even know how to be fake. From that first night, you’ve been completely open and honest, transparent as water.”

And there he is wordsmithing, and your eyes are wet. “Ah, Rafa.” You grab his hand that is still twisted in your hair, and bring it to your mouth. You kiss his fingers. “You’ve never made me feel like I have to pretend anything.”

“You don’t. Please don’t.”

“I won’t, but do you know how rare that is?”

“Honesty?”

“No, wanting honesty. Lots of guys – forgive me, but really – talk about wanting honesty, but what they mean is they want to say whatever they want, but they don’t want to hear what I have to say.”

“I’ve heard of that phenomenon,” he says, his hand against your cheek.

“Really?”

“Yeah, it’s called _assholes._ ”

You laugh. “Well, that’s not you. You want honesty.”

He takes in some more smoke. “I can’t imagine why anybody wants to live with pretense.”

You snuggle in closer to him. “People’s feelings get hurt.”

He’s quiet for a minute. “I might hurt your feelings sometimes,” he says.

“I know.”

“But you’ll love me anyway?”

“Yes, unless you do it deliberately, or do it because you don’t care enough about me to take me into consideration. But so far, so good on that.”

He takes a final drag and stubs out his cigarette. “That’s what I mean. That’s honest. If you’d said you’d love me no matter what I did or how I treated you, you’d be either dishonest or stupid. Come here, girl.” He reaches down and pulls you up to sit next to him. His smile is devastatingly attractive.

“God, you are gorgeous,” you tell him. “Just being honest.”

He laughs. “Stole my line.”

“You can say it.”

He kisses you softly. “You are lovely. Lovely, and intelligent, and interesting, and hot as fuck.”

“Thank you. That was actually a better line.”

He grins. “It was, but don’t forget I’m the wordsmith.” He picks up his phone and checks the time. “We’re supposed to meet Jazz and Anthony in three hours. Shall I set the alarm for a two-hour nap?”

“That sounds perfect.”

He pulls the covers up and wraps his arms around you, and you feel safe and whole in a way that you didn’t when you were away from him. You’ll have to find a way to deal with that because both of you will travel for work sometimes. It will be okay because you’ll always have Rafa to come home to.

He must have been thinking the same thing. “How about you move the rest of your stuff in here before the end of the month?” he asks, his voice already sleepy.

“Okay,” you agree. “Can we put your ugly couch at the curb and use mine instead?”

He laughs. “Sure.”

You’re asleep almost instantly, and when the alarm goes off, you feel like you’ve actually had some rest. “Where are we meeting them?” you ask on your way to the bathroom.

“Lantern,” he tells you. It’s a nice restaurant a couple of blocks away, so you can walk.

You have a bad case of bed-head, so you get to work on that and put on some make-up. Lantern is nice, but you don’t have to dress up too much, so you’ll wear your favorite purple dress. Rafa nudges you away from the mirror so he can get his hair into the perfect swoop that he wants, and you sit on the bed to fasten your sandals, smiling as you hear him muttering curses. Rafa has always made statements with his hairstyle, from his buzz cut back in the nineties to his long, artfully tangled look of a few years ago to his current medium length swooping style. He has explained that the message he wants to send right now is _anguished artist_. You think it’s artistic, but not particularly anguished. Anyway, it’s cute.

You’re just about ready to leave when he pulls a small box out of the desk drawer. He holds it out to you. “I got you this when Jazz said you’d made the contract deal,” he said. “Sort of a congratulations present.”

“You are so sweet.” It’s a necklace, silver, and simple in design, an x-shaped charm on a chain. You put it on, and the x lies in the hollow of your throat.

“X for a kiss?” you ask.

“Maybe,” he says, “or maybe the algebraic x, the mysterious unknown.”

“Are you going to solve for x?”

He shrugs. “I might. Or maybe it’s just this.” He carefully pushes the charm aside and kisses your throat. “X marks the spot,” he smiles. “A spot I like to kiss, and I’m the only one who knows that.”

He takes your hand, and you go out the door together.

**Author's Note:**

> The title, and the part of the story that centers around that sentence is from "The First Time I Prayed," a poem by Rafael Casal. You can find links to his poetry on his website getrafael.com.


End file.
